


Here Comes The Stranger

by Aifsaath



Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: F/M, Identity Issues, Jamie is a cinnamon roll, Male-Female Friendship, Otherness, POC AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-07-12 13:33:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7107001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aifsaath/pseuds/Aifsaath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Claire Randall did not take the ride to Craigh na Dun in the morning after Samhain. She visited the place a few days later with her husband. By the date the time-travelling property of the central stone worn off. She spent the rest of her life in the comfort of Oxfordshire with Frank. Seventy years later another Claire of different background visits Inverness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Claire & Claire

**Chapter I: Claire & Claire**

  
For a mid-term break a group of students from University of Edinburgh chose to burrow in the middle of Scottish Highlands, and spend their days macerating themselves in gallons and gallons of whisky. Their seemingly insatiable thirst for anything containing alcohol earned them a great deal of respect amongst the locals of Inverness. Jarek Kowalski, the graduate student of biochemistry from Poland, had a liver of such heroic reputation that his classmates were sure he would be memorized by a plaque above the pub’s fireplace.

  
On this particular evening they decided to walk around the city before the mandatory visitation of their beloved pub. American take on Halloween reached even this place. The jack-o’-lanterns grinned at passers-by from every corner.* People in costumes filled the streets. Laughter and scent of food everywhere. The old castle loomed above the scenery, illuminated from bellow. The starless sky was black as ink. Cold air bit into their cheeks, but the students did not mind. John bought each of them a cup of mulled wine to chase away the chill.

Claire Wong gulped down the hot liquid, loving the way it spread its warmth in her belly. It was the last time this year she had the opportunity to enjoy herself before finishing her medical degree and starting her specialisation training.

2015 was the very last year she could stay with her friends before she leaved Edinburgh. She was never an outgoing person, and never made friends easily. Leaving Edinburgh meant become utterly alone again. Even though her mother was still alive, after father’s death it seemed they would never get along. Claire liked to think herself a stoic person who would not let it get to her – but she could not lie to herself.

When they finally arrived to the pub it was half past eight. The old tavern was packed with patrons. Cacophony of English and Gaelic buzzed through the rooms. Smells of colognes, bodies and booze mixed together. The only table available was next to an armchair occupied by an old, fragile lady in green grey dress. She gave them a gentle, sweet smile. Her face was pale and wrinkled like a dried prune. Her eyes must have been golden brown before the years clouded them with cataracts.

“Good evening, madam. Would you mind if we sit here?”

“Oh, not at all, dear boy.” Her voice was thin and melodic. She waited until they all sat around the table. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”

“Well, we’re on a vacation here,” said Malcolm, the only Scottish of their bunch. “Got autumn break so we headed here to drink our brains of. Except Jarek here.”

“Jarek?” The lady raised her eyebrows. “You’re the Jarek the barman can’t shut about?”

“I told you you’d be a legend.” Jarek turned red and spoke not a word.

The lady introduced herself as Claire Randall. She must have been a beauty in her youth, Claire Wong thought. Even as a hundred-year-old granny Claire Randall had fine, symmetrical features. Despite her age she did not suffer from senility. “I used to be a doctor myself,” she said. “After the war, when I returned home and got my degree.” Her accent gave away her southern roots.

“You served in the second world war?” John seemed interested. “Where?”

“Oh, yes. In France… As a nurse. Until the very last day of war.”

Because Young Claire’s friends were a pack of blood-thirsty twats with no sense of propriety the next hour was spent by fishing the goriest stories from Old Claire. And gory they were. Apparently the woman had the worst luck with her placements, because she always ended up in the bloodiest battlefields. The barman kept bringing them tankards after tankards.

“We were all so young,” Mrs Randall sighed in the end, when she run out of stories she was willing to tell. “Most of the soldiers were boys like you. Maybe even younger. Half of them had never seen a naked woman before shrapnels took away their limbs… But enough about me. Tell me about yourself! Where are you from?”

“Well, I’m from London,” John said. “Um, I study engineering. Jarek here is our Polish prodigy.”

“My parents are from Belgium but I was born in Birmingham,” said Marie-Anne.

“And I am from Hong Kong,” Young Claire said. “But I spent most of my life in Newcastle.”

* * *

  
Two Claires happened to meet the next day by a chance.

Young Claire took a walk to a nearby park to have some fresh air. Her head was pounding. She should not have drunk so much yesterday. Given the fact that her friends were today so sickeningly sweet to her, the last night had been a disaster.

Old Claire sat on a park bench feeding bread crumbles to pigeons.

“Hello, Claire.”

“Good morning, Mrs Randall.”

“Would you sit with me for a moment, please?”

She saw no problem with that. So she took a place next to the old lady and watched the birds fight for the remaining crumbles.

“Do you remember anything from the night?”

“Not much.”

“Well, after the third glass you started crying.”

“Oh no…”

“There’s no shame in the boundless sincerity caused by whisky. It is not the most productive coping mechanism, even for someone of your age, but it is a start. Obviously, there is something that makes you so sad. Maybe a talk would be helpful?”

Young Clare turned beet red. But there was no use of concealing the fact anymore, not after her drunken breakdown. The lady offered her a listening ear and a shoulder to cry on. Finally, she could at least speak about her fears aloud. While sober.

“It’s just the change, you know. This year is my last in Edinburgh, and I fell in love with the city, with my friends, with my life there that it tears me to know that in a few months it will all end.”

“There are worse things to happen, dear. Not that it matters.”

“I know. You’ve no idea how stupid and weak I feel. I just… I feel like everything is slipping from me, everything that I know. First Hong Kong.” It was so long ago and yet the distant memory of the city bursting with lights remained buried in her mind. Cantonese faded during the years from her tongue but she could never forget the heat, the rush, the sense of home. And now she was left rootless like a weed torn out of soil. “Then Dad.” He died five years ago. Sometimes she wondered whether decision to go to medical school was more about his fight with the cancer that eventually killed him. “And finally, Edinburgh. Sometimes I wonder whether I will find anything constant in my life.”

“I felt the same when the war ended,” offered Old Claire. “Suddenly, I’d lost my purpose. I didn’t know what to do with myself anymore. Everything seemed so mundane and pointless. I was twenty-six with no goal set before me. There were people who lost everything in war. I was lucky. My family survived, my husband lost only his faith in humanity unlike my patients who returned home limbless and scarred for life. Everyone I loved was alive. And yet it took me, the luckiest person, several years to accommodate to the new world.”

Old Claire paused, frowning. A few minutes passed in a complete silence. And then, as if something occurred to her, she looked at Young Claire.

“Today I can see what a nonsense it all was. I guess it’s something every person has to overcome. You have to live it through to realize it fully. You’re young. Worry not, my dear.” Old Claire reached to her, held her small smooth hands in her own wrinkled. “Time will sooth every pain, every fear. Don’t worry, girl. You’re so young, so full of strength. I envy you.”

* * *

  
Later that day Claire decided to be the stereotypical Asian tourist and visit the nearby megalithic structure. _Craigh na Dun_. She butchered the pronunciation every time she tried to read the name aloud. She checked her bag for the map, umbrella, her phone and a bottle of green tea.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go with us to see the Nessie?” Marie-Anne weirded her out with the sudden gentleness. From Marie-Anne, the most cynical woman she ever met, it felt not only strange but fake as well.

  
“Isn’t the point of Nessie to be unseen?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I’ll pass.”

“Claire…”

“Please, stop it.”

“Fine, fine. Just get back by eight o’clock, okay? The train to Edinburgh leaves at nine.”

* * *

  
She was lucky that the weather was still warm enough. Getting to Craigh by foot took at least two hours. The structure was located east to Inverness, south to Beauly Firth. Claire followed the coastline as the clouds slowly became redder and redder. She heard the traffic from roads crossing the countryside. The soft hum of the lake. Surrounded by stubble fields. Dark groves. Flock of birds crossing the deep blue sky. Was it possible for an exile to feel so in love with the foreign land? To find something to connect with, even for this one afternoon on the brink of winter. Somewhere near the horizon bonfires flared up. She stopped in her tracks. Mrs Randall was right, damn it. _I am feeling sorry for myself while my life passes by._

  
The last hundred meters of the path lead uphill. It meandered between bushes and old dried trees. Claire gathered her long skirt into her fists and run. Sun was not set yet, though the shadows were darker and longer than before. Finally, she reached the top of the hill, breathing heavily. Took her bag off and dropped it unceremoniously onto the ground. Rubbing her sore shoulder, Claire glanced round the clearing. Leafless trees stood at least a few steps from the circle of megaliths. Yellow grass growing among the standing stones softly moved in the wind. In the very centre – the very peak of the hill – one stone towered above. She wondered why.

Claire stepped into the circle.

At first she did not notice anything extraordinary, as she made her way to the heart of Craigh. She studied her surroundings, noting the irregularities in the distances between the stones. When it dawned on her, she already faced the central stone.

The world fell completely silent. The buzz echoing from the highway disappeared. No sound from airplanes was heard. No cries of birds. Nothing. As if she suddenly became deaf. A pressure, horrible rising pressure thumped in her ribcage and ears. She started panicking. The piercing headache from the morning returned. _I didn’t have a syncope for years…_ Claire realized she was about to faint. To prevent herself from losing balance and fracturing her skull, she leant on the stone.  
Her vision blackened. She collapsed.  
  
When she regained her consciousness back, the world seemed… _right_ again. She found herself lying on a ground near the base of the central stone. When she caught the noises made by the surrounding wildlife the pressing sensation ceased away. A relieved sigh escaped her. She tried to sit up and almost immediately regretted it. A sharp pain flashed in her head. Nausea arrived soon. Claire wondered how long was she unconscious, what time it was. The sun was hidden below the horizon, yet there was still enough light to see where she was to step. Temperature dropped at least ten degrees. Slowly and carefully she rose to her feet waiting for the dizziness to pass before moving again to the western edge of the circle, where she remembered she had left her bag. It was nowhere to be found.

  
“What the hell-“

  
A while ago Inverness shone bright to a great distance. The largest city of Highlands pulsed with life. One could not miss it at all, even in the middle of a winter night it shone not unlike a lighthouse.

  
Right now the city suffered a blackout. A complete blackout giving away no sign of any activity. Every single power plant in the area must have been shut down. Claire saw no lights, no traffic. She wondered what happened. It should be nearly impossible to paralyze an entire city at once.

  
Guns shooting resonated through the fields. Frightened birds scattered away from their nests. Someone screamed with pain and another shot followed soon. Claire ducked to the nearby bushes. Someone, a young man judging by the voice, was injured and cried in agony. Third shot and the screaming stopped forever. Claire froze in her spot.  
Her mind frantically tried to come up with a plan. She did not dare to leave the relative safety of Craigh na Dun where she could at least hide and make herself as invisible as possible. But it would not last for long, she realized with a growing terror. The fight got dangerously close and she doubted the murderers would spare the sole witness out of the goodness of their hearts. Her eyes roved around the groove. In the dim light she did not see any escape route – and even if she found any, her pale grey greatcoat would make her a perfect target.

Claire strained her ears. Steps. _Thunder of heavy feet striding up the hill._ She curled into a ball. Male voices hissing in an undecipherable language grew louder. Too soon a band of six men appeared at the southern side of the circle. Each one of them carried a rifle and what appeared to be a broadsword.

  
She bit her tongue to keep herself from making a single whimper. Controlling her urge to run like a hare while shit scared turned out to be far more difficult. _Don’t move a bone. Don’t make a noise. Play dead. Remember their faces._ She kept repeating that to herself like one would recite a mantra. Over and over.

Claire watched as each man knelt behind a standing stone, the rifles prepared to kill. The closest to her was a rat-faced little man. Luckily, he did not spot her in the thorny bush. He pointed the rifle – no, a _musket_ , she corrected – at his prey under the hill. Claire closed her eyes. Counted the passing seconds before the man fired.

Whoever they tried to kill did not give up on their lives easily. All hell broke loose as they returned the fire. Three shots filed the air with the sickening smell of burned gunpowder. None hit their intended target, the bullets deflected from the megaliths instead destroying branches, scratching the ancient stones. One bullet flew right into Claire’s bush, barely missing her left arm. She could not stop the shriek from escaping her lungs. She never occurred to gunfire. She was no soldier, no hunter, she never found herself so close to her own death. The shriek was an automatic reaction. However stupid it was.

Rat Face heard her. He yelled, again, a few words in the language she did not speak. The others grunted in response, while they were rushing to recharge their guns.  
“If ye want to see another day, ye’d sit there like a mouse,” Rat Face gritted through his teeth. “Understand?”

Claire quickly nodded.

The flintlock clicked right before another set of fire.


	2. The Fairy of the Hill

The leader of the bandits barked out orders in that unintelligible, melodic language she finally recognized as Gaelic. The group split. Two men stayed inside the stone circle, hiding behind the megaliths. The rest unsheathed their swords and crept away. Claire counted the minutes till she heard a distant clash of metal.

Then the leader stood up, a gun still in his hands, a broadsword at his side, she felt as if her heart would burst out of her chest. He glared at her, and spat. _He’s going to kill me._ Two steps separated them. And now he towered over her, a giant of a man. The dim evening light distorted his face into a grotesque dark mask full of shadows.

“She was ‘ere the whole time, Dougal,” said one of the strangers. “The lass saw all of it.”

“I ken. The question is whether the lass will _speak._ ”

The two surrounded her. One of them, a fat dirty blighter, reached into the bush. A big, calloused hand grabbed her forearm. Somewhere down the hills a man yelped in agony. Sounds of metal hitting against metal. She glared at the dirty fingers trapping her. The sharp edge of his sword. The glint of a dagger tucked in his belt. _Will the police find her body?_ It all felt surreal, she thought, the knowledge this might be her very last breath before being murdered by a band of nutters wielding relics from a museum.

She did not fight back as he dragged her out of the hazel bush. She did not fight back when he took a fist of her hair and made her to face him crooking her neck to look up to him, to his mad, mad eyes.

“Who are…” He gasped. “The hell… _What_ are ye?!”

* * *

 

The creature blinked in confusion. Maybe it did not understand a human language. At first glance it appeared as a petite young lass, almost a child still. The top of her head hardly reached to his breastbone. His youngest daughter was taller. But then Rupert studied her closer and saw its eyes – dark, wide and elfine. *

Rupert MacKenzie was a sinner, aye. He lied, he stole, he killed men good and evil. He was a god-fearing man who attended the mass every Sunday. Confessed his sins – well, most of them –  to the old priest. He knew what the Bible spoke of was the only truth in the world that he needed. Nevertheless, he had heard stories about the fairy folk who resided in barrows not unlike Craigh na Dun. Until today he considered it to be mere old wives’ tales only good enough to scare disobedient children. Unsettling stories of vile creatures with black hearts and terrible beauty that stole children and made people sick.

Now, one of the nightmares of his childhood cowered before him tame as a lamb.

“A fairy,” he breathed. “Chief, ‘tis a fairy!”

“Don’t be a moron.” Dougal observed it closely. Deep line crossed his brow as he frowned. “What the hell is yer kind doing here?” he asked the creature in English. It flinched and mumbled something.

“Louder!”

“I don’t know what you mean.” While appearing very young it had a voice of a grown woman. The way it pronounced words grated on ears. He had never heard such accent. “What – what _my_ kind? I’ve only come here for a walk from Inverness. I’ve no idea what is going on here.” It – _she_ gulped. “M-my friends will look for me if I don’t return by eight. Let me go. I won’t tell anyone. I didn’t see your faces. I didn’t see _anything._ Please.”

Dougal took a long, calculating gaze.

“Ye ken that I cannae.”

The girl’s face froze. Without any warning Dougal hit the back of her head. Gasping, the lass collapsed onto the ground. Rupert’s eyes moved between the two hesitating whether he should slit the lass’ throat. Dougal calmly loaded his gun.

“Take the lass to Mary. We’ll meet there after we finish the business here.” He nodded to where he sent the others. “Donna let her escape. I reckon she has a story to tell.”

“What is she if not a fairy?”

 “A Cathayan whore, I bet. Now go.”

* * *

 

Second time that day Claire awoke from oblivion with no idea on her whereabouts, and battling a strong urge to vomit. With a growing terror she realized that she lay tied up on a back of horse. A coarse fur scratched her left cheek. A repugnant odour of an unwashed, sweating body filled her nostrils. She tried to move her head a bit in order to see at least where was her abductor heading.

Their way lead to a lone cottage with muddy walls that stood next to a couple of willows. A long string of pale smoke rose from a crooked chimney, and the surprisingly small windows were covered with wooden shutters. She did not recall any building like this when she had crossed the countryside with her friends a few days ago.

As she lay there resembling more a bag of potatoes than an actual human being, she forced herself to focus on her situation. She had no idea where she was. Her abductors were a gang of murderous lunatics who would not hesitate to use their swords on her if she gave them a slightest motive. What on earth possessed them to use _swords._ Did they deem the rifles and colts too impersonal to take a person’s life away? Did they need, _want_ to see death as close as possible? Perhaps a better question needed to be asked; did a madman need any reason at all?

“I know ye’re awake.”

She did not respond.

“Are ye really a whore of Cathay?”

“…”

“A respectable lass of Cathay then?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Ohoho, I bet ye ken.” Laughing, he slapped her buttocks. “I’ve never seen a lass like ye here.”

She gritted her teeth and spoke no more.

They stopped at the willows. He got off the horse and lead it to the tree. She watched him tie the animal to a lower branch. After that, he helped her down, and moved her into the cottage. The only light came from a small fireplace that filled the only room with a thick smoke.

“MARY! I’M HERE!”

“I hear ye just right, Rupert. There’s no need to shout.” A middle aged woman in dirty rags appeared from behind a wooden pillar. “Where are the others?”  Her eyes dropped on Claire. Turning completely white, she crossed herself frantically.

“What a demon ye brought to me! Where did you find it?!”

“She was hiding at Craigh na Dun. I thought her a fairy but chief implied she’s a woman of buyable favours from a place called Cathay.”

“If that’s a truth then Cathay must be an ungodly place.” Mary stole another look. “Oh my, those eyes…”

Claire swore in the back of her mind that another shocked remark on her race would make her go ballistic, ropes or not.

“Where am I?” she asked instead. “I swear I’ll not try anything, just tell me where are you taking me.”

Neither Mary nor Rupert replied. Defeated, Claire curled in her corner as much as the ties allowed. _Cathay._ When was the last time she came across the old name for the land she originated from? She rested her aching head on the wall. The ropes on her wrists were tightened too much to even attempt to untangle them. She could only hope that Marie-Anne would soon alert the local authorities. The best course of action would be slowing the band down as much as possible. There was no way a group of six men cosplaying Braveheart would escape anyone’s notice.

She watched her captor gulp down a hazardous amount of whisky. The dim orange light illuminated the primitive furnishing of the cottage. The only clean thing in the room was the wooden crucifix hung above the hearth. Otherwise, it presented an image of utter poverty. She searched her memory for any mention of a skansen in the vicinity of Inverness. During the break, she had visited numerous castles, folk festivals, even the memorial o the Culloden Moor. But she recalled no small, dirty cottage in the middle of nowhere.

“The lads should be here soon enough. Ye’ll get your coin, Mary.”

“Well, they should!” Mary glanced nervously at Claire. “I won’t have her under my roof any longer than needed!”

Before long, they heard the thunder of hooves nearing the shack. Rupert cracked open a window to peak out. He chuckled slightly. “I told ye they’ll come!”

The small room became even smaller when the five men burst inside.  Rupert welcomed them with open arms and wide smile. Immediately, he froze.

“What happened to yer arm?!”

“One of those bloody lobsterbacks charged at him,” she recognized the voice as chief’s. “Knocked him off horse.”

“Shit, that looks awful.” Rupert winced at the sight of whatever happened to the giant redhead. “Does it hurt?”

The injured boy grunted something vulgar which prompted a bout of nervous laughter among the company. The joy died off as soon as the chief announced that they had to leave the shack right at once.

“Can ye ride, Jamie?”

Jamie shook his head. “Not like this. It hurts even still. Just leave me here. I’d only slow you down.”

“Ye’ve fell on yer head, lad, if ye think I’ll let ye bugger around here when the bastards search the area. Murtagh, help me wi’ him.”

“What are ye trying to do?”

“Force his damn joint into the socket,” Dougal growled. “Sit down, lad, and let me see it.”

If it were not for the inevitable reality of violence she would face and if she were less empathetic, Claire would be laughing her arse off at the men’s enthusiastic yet bluntly amateurish approach to the task. _It is a human arm, not a battering ram_ , _you morons!_ she wanted to yell. Everyone’s attention was focused on the torture in front of the fireplace. For the moment it suited her, as she could search for a sharp edge to scrape off the rope. She forced herself to move, praying to manage it without alerting Rupert.

The young man displayed a great deal of endurance as he fought the urge to cry tooth and nail – but there is a very good _reason_ why the orthopaedist puts a patient with a luxation of a joint under anaesthetics. Their utter lack of precaution terrified her even more. No one bothered to check if the bone itself was broken or not, nor the angle they were trying to push. When the second attempt to reposition the arm failed, the boy already reached the brink of collapse. Two other men caught him before he fell onto the ground. Claire saw the droplets of sweat on the boy’s brow, the unnatural twist of clavicular bone, the frantic pulsation on his neck while his right arm hung lifelessly at his side.

She was a medics student. She had yet to swear her oath, but the five years of bioethics in University of Edinburgh leaves its mark on a person. She feared for her life, yes. To the bastards who dragged her here, who kicked and beat her, she felt nothing but a contempt. But right now there was an injured man and she had a duty to help. Determined, she gathered the pathetic remains of her courage.

“STOP IT!”

“Shut the woman,” Dougal roared as everyone turned to her. Rupert stepped towards. She pulled herself together. She could not afford to panic now.

“I’m warning you, stop it! You’re only going to cripple him if you keep doing it that way.”

“What does a _whore_ ken about injuries!”

“I don’t know about the whore. But as a _medic_ I know a lot more than you, and I assure you that if you try to push the arm again that same way like the two times before, you’ll only crush his veins and tear the sinews, so he would _never_ move it anymore. You’ve already tried it two times, and it is pretty visible even from here that you’ve got not even a slightest idea what you’re doing.” She drew a long breath. “If you untie me, I can reposition the joint myself.”

They glared at her as if she grew another head. She pushed it even further.

“You only lose time here, Mr Dougal.” **

The seconds ticking between her offer and his answer seemed like an eternity. When he nodded she could not believe her own eyes. A small knife slit through the ropes, and she could at last feel her blood freely circulating to her fingers.

“So, show us yer skill, lass.”

* * *

 

Jamie was trembling with pain, hardly perceiving his surroundings. It gripped him so that he almost overheard the woman’s voice booming from the corner of the room. It burned to crank his neck so he could see her. _Weel_ , was this the fairy of the hill Murtagh told him that he had found in the hazel bush? He imagined her unearthly, blonde and winged. This was a mere lass of the kind he once spotted during his time as a mercenary in French harbours. A bonnie, though still a human of flesh and bones. The dark eyes bore into his for a fleeting while before she turned back to his uncle.

She had quite a tongue, he admitted, wincing. He half expected Dougal to slap her for the attitude, but to everybody’s surprise he stepped back. The girl who could not be older than fifteen sixteen closed the distance between them. He grinned at her.

Her face remained blank as she lowered to his bruised shoulder. Softly she moved his arm to rest on his lap. The view did not bother her. She traced her fingers along the misplaced collarbone to the swelling joint. He shivered at her touch, although her expression – frowned eyebrows and tight shut lips – never changed. The ministrations were firm and impersonal. She knelt down. Lightly pressed his arm above the elbow.

“Does it hurt when I push here?”

“No.”

The pressure grew.

“It still donnae hurt.”

“But you feel the pressure.”

He nodded.

“So nothing is broken. Good,” she nodded and slightly pinched his palm. “Did you sense it?”

“Aye.” He wondered what she intended to do.

She paused in a thought before she mumbled: “Cunningham will do. I’ll now rest your hand on my shoulder. Keep your back straight. Breathe.”

The fabric of her coat was light grey and smooth under his touch. Behind her, Dougal glared daggers while the girl gently massaged muscles on his upper arm and neck.

“Ye offered to put his shoulder back in, lass, not to pet him.”

“I’m not petting anyone, Mr. Dougal. I’m only relaxing the spasms that you caused when you rammed his arm.”

Petting or not, it felt the same. Jamie was the last person to complain, and Dougal’s furious countenance was priceless.

“Don’t slouch. Will anyone support him, please?”

Murtagh wordlessly walked behind. As the lass continued with the massage, the touches became more intense and downright painful.

“I’m now moving the arm closer to the socket,” she explained with the same detached tone. “Tell me if I’m proceeding too fast for you.”

“No, ‘tis fine.” He gulped. “Go on.”

From that point it did not take much longer. The lass obviously knew her craft well, as she massaged the shoulder into its place while causing as little distress as possible. After a few minutes the pain altogether ceased, and Jamie realized that he could move his arm freely again.

“Bless ye, lass!” he beamed.

She let out a tired sigh, and slipped her scarf off her neck. “Hold on. I have to fixate it.”

“But ‘tis all right.”

“It won’t be if you strain it when it needs to heal,” she deadpanned. With a few quick, confident motions she bound his arm firmly to his chest. Jamie sniffed at the rose coloured fabric when no one looked. It carried a nice scent of almonds and berries. He recalled nothing so blatantly feminine.

Dougal’s patience reached its limits. With Jamie’s arm being patched, his Uncle ordered their company to get on horses and disappear from the area. The fairy lass was dragged out by Rupert. Dougal decided they will have to take her with them.

“Either she’s an English spy, though the Lord knows why, or she’s a real chirurgeon, even if it makes no sense for a woman,” Dougal said in Gaelic. “Each option has its use.”

She looked broken, and lost, when they nudged her to the horses. The fieriness she showed to them disappeared. He saw her glance up at the sky in a silent prayer, when her expression changed from fearful to downright horror. He followed her gaze. He did not understand why she was so afraid of the moon. He said it aloud.

“What is the day today?”

“Friday.”

“The sixth of November?”

Her voice was thin and scared.

Jamie laughed, not understanding the source of her anguish. “No, lass. Today is All Saint’s Day. November the first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Yes, I know Rupert’s train of thoughts would be unacceptable in our time. Still, the man had probably never seen anyone from anywhere east to Germany, and I seriously doubt he even visited London where he could have at least met Chinese sailors who were brought by the East India Company.
> 
> ** Faux pas! Addressing the War Chief of MacKenzies as a mere Mr. is a special kind of suicide. Let’s forgive Claire, because with no clue about the century in the form of Black Jack Randall she can’t possibly know she’s not in a grip of violent Rob Roy wannabes but in a grip of actual Rob Roys’. 


	3. The Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short, transitional chapter. Just to let you all know that I'm still alive:)

In all of her life, Claire Wong had never seen a truly dark sky. It did not matter whether she watched the blackness while standing in the never sleeping streets of Hong Kong or peeping out from the window of her family’s flat in Newcastle. The bright light of cities, the streetlamps and neon signs always outshone the stars, and tinted the colour of the sky into a shade of dark dirty orange.

Until now. The Milky Way stretched all across the dome, thousands and thousands of distant suns. The sheer majesty of the view dwarfed her, awed her. But there was one detail that did not seem right. Then it dawned on her. _The moon_. Yesterday it shone brightly above Inverness, mere days until the full moon. She remembered it vividly, as if she walked again in the loud streets full of masked people, mulled wine sour and sweet on her tongue.

Now, it was waning.

Something must have happened to her head. When the man called Dougal hit her so hard she lost her consciousness. She was out for quite a while, so there was no wonder for her confused memory. It was the only logical explanation. Brain concussion was nothing to ignore, but it was a solvable problem. Yes, yes, it must be it.

But it made _no_ sense. _You stayed in Inverness until the first of November only because of it falling upon Sunday. Tomorrow you start your classes. Tomorrow you have a work to do. Today you were to return to Edinburgh. Marie-Anne waits. Everyone waits._ Funny, how in the maddest moments in her life she clung to the least important details.

“Are ye well, lass? Ye went all so silent.”

The young Scots’ voice tore her out of her trance. _Jamie._ He stood too close for her comfort. The odour of sweat, blood and gunpowder filled her nostrils. His imposing statue did not come across as amiable. She stepped back, but he grabbed her wrist with his free hand.

“Come,” he said dragging her to one of the horses who were tied to the old tree next to the cottage. “We need to set out, now. Can ye ride?”

“Not at all.”

“Well, now ye will.”

“Where are you taking me?”

Instead of the answer he made her climb onto a giant of a horse. Her skirt, although it was not a pencil one, was too narrow for her to sit on the saddle without rolling it up to her thighs. The cold evening air brushed her legs, making her to shiver.

Behind her Jamie shuffled. She glanced back. He loosened the clip on his tartan.

“Yer teeth chatter. I’ll keep ye warm, just help me wi’ the plaid.”

“Th-that’s alright, keep it…”

Well, she was trembling more with shock and fear than cold.

“I willnae lit ye freeze dae death, lassie,” he grinned.

“Thank you, but it is really not necessary.” He did not listen. She watched him try to unfasten the clip with one hand. “Please, don’t. I have no idea how to ride. And you can use only one arm. If you bind us together, it will only end up with both of us falling off the horse. I’m fine.”

Jamie laughed.

“All right, scaredy-cat.”

And so they set off.

* * *

The lass looked miserable, but at least she kept her mouth shut. Dougal’s men kept their attention on surroundings, though the wench’s showed off legs distracted them. Who she was, Dougal mused. Judging by her clothes, she was no poor wanderer. Though her coat was cut similarly to the Redcoats’ uniform, he did not recognize the fabric. She wore very fine, riding boots, despite her disclaiming ever riding a horse. With a bit of curiosity, Dougal eyed her weird stockings. They were black and stuck perfectly to the skin. Not a wrinkle.

Had he met her in London, he would have guessed she was a personal courtesan of some connoisseur, whose taste required a more exotic flesh. He had heard about those houses where they kept beauties from all parts of the world, from the burning corners of Africa to the dreamy jungles of faraway India, only for the delight of gentlemen bored with the everydayness of Englishwomen. Maybe this Claire came from one of those brothels. Maybe she tried to claim a more honourable profession than the oldest one. But she _had_ the skill and the arrogance from that.

When she caught his gaze, she grimaced.

“My friends wait for me, you know,” she said quietly. “In Inverness. I should have been hours ago at the station. If you let me go, I won’t tell anyone I’ve met you.”

“If ye had any friends in here I doubt they’d let you frolick around the countryside just to get shot.”

“Why are you dragging me wherever you’re going? For a ransom?”

“Dae we look like some kidnapers?”

She did not reply.

“Ye’re daft if ye think that we lit spies free around.”

“I am not a spy,” she whispered.

“So what is yer business here?”

“None. I have no idea what is going on. I need to get back to Inverness.”

“Why Inverness?” Jamie asked. “I like it there myself but it’s not the kind of town people travel to from far away. And ye really are not local.”

“I am not, but I am not a spy either. I have friends in Inverness. My mother lives in Newcastle. I have to go back.”

“Ye’re not going anywhere until me or Callum say so.”

. . .

They kept going through the night in a steady pace – hurrying yet never daring to rush the horses to override. They entered a forest, she did not recall from her journeys over the countryside.

Claire was on a brink of a collapse. Her legs ached from the unusual strain. She kept herself awake by soundlessly reciting all of the bones in the human body. She felt Jamie’s breath tickling her on her nape.

She was still alive. They could kill her whenever they wanted – but now, she kept breathing.

When the first bout of panic left her system, she could finally focus on her situation. She knew, roughly, where she was.

What she did not have a clue on was _when_ she was, however impossible or ridiculous it seemed.

_Think!_ She gritted her teeth. The smell from horses and men was almost unbearable.

She did not fancy herself educated in anything relating the past of British Isles. She had always considered “the humanities” an utter waste of her time. Only now, for the very first time in her life Claire regretted her utter disdain for History classes. She had only the very vaguest idea what _century_ she was in – and that was only thanks to the clothes of her kidnappers. _The tartan had been banned in Scotland,_ had said the tour guide from the Culloden moor memorial.

“Fuck,” she whispered. “Fuck. Fuck...”

There was never a chance to finish the streak of profanities. The gunfire roared through the forest and Jamie threw her from the horse.

_._

_._

_._

_So she run. In the brink of the dawn, when the world was still drowned in the dim darkness, she run and hid and run, until her feet bled._

**Author's Note:**

> * As a person who has never been to Scotland I have no idea what traditions are held in today’s Inverness. Internet is a mighty tool, yet it is fallible and not always helpful. If I prickled any of my readers’ national sensibilities, I’m deeply sorry.


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